


As I Love the Name of Honor

by wiildflowers



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Gen, Historical Hetalia, Likely Period Incongruities, White Men Mad At Other White Men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:34:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24401413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wiildflowers/pseuds/wiildflowers
Summary: Fragments of the creation of a country. How America came to take his current spot on the edge of the world's stage, barely old enough for his feet to touch the ground.
Relationships: America & England (Hetalia)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this so, so very long ago, and I haven't been seriously active in this fandom in years, but honestly I just wanted this out of my Google Docs. It's a lot edgier than my usual works, just due to the fact that it was written in 2016, and I can't verify the historical accuracy, because I've forgotten almost all of my knowledge of American history! But I hope it's a decent read. Any and all feedback would be lovely!

**28 May, 1754 anno domini. 15 miles from Fort Necessity.**

The darkness swallowed up all, and the silence was deafening.

They marched one foot in front of the other, one man in front of the other, for miles and miles and miles until the damp humidity sank into their bones and the rhythm sank into their feet. The first rays of golden sunlight began to peek through the canopy above, adding cloying warmth to an already-humid day, and the air buzzed with something. With what, though, the boy wasn't sure. It was obvious the Lieutenant Colonel, inching forwards with his men, didn’t know either, although America could only hope the expression on his face was simply nerves and not an increasingly solid sense of dread. The reports were off, he found, peeking through gaps in the surrounding greenery, by nearly twenty men, the odds now in his favor. 

All the better.

The first shot seemed to ring out across the glen, closely followed by two, three, five, ten more. Cerulean eyes swept over the scene before resting upon the commander of it all, who looked almost bewildered by the turn of events. This wasn't supposed to happen, a voice inside his mind piped up. The unease was gone from most of his men's eyes by the time it was clear that half a dozen soldiers were grasping at sides or knees or chests stained crimson, if they were moving at all. This wasn't supposed to happen.

America shut his eyes, fingers moving to the bridge of his nose in an attempt to soothe his growing headache. The air is laced with the metallic scent of blood, and the taste grows hot and heavy on his tongue. Those not injured are now aiming their weapons at the few still breathing French intruders, murmuring threats much too quietly for the blonde to be able to hear. In a way, he was almost glad he couldn't. The struggle didn't last even half as long as many had expected, be it due to the overwhelming amount of colonial soldiers or what the boy thought must've been an element of surprise. A surprise not conducted during war, the voice piped up once more, as he watched the surrender only a few moments later. Murder, or so France would argue.

❖ ❖ ❖

**17 July, 1754 anno domini. Eastern Virginia.**

Few dared to mention it, but his eyes screamed to be painted in reds and golds like all other lionhearted men of the age; to be declared as strong as thunder in the midst of a storm. A blaze as bright as the boy's passion swept across the fort he once tried to defend, and as the troops marched towards Virginia, the beginnings of burns made their appearance across his chest, still obscured by the uniform he was wearing over them.

The smell of soot began to fill America's nostrils, although he knew there was nothing there burning among the rolling hills of Virginia. Here he was safe, here his people were safe, the threat of attack nowhere near imminent. Here, however, it's glaringly obvious how young he is, how inexperienced he is in the art of war. And so America sat, on the edge of the world's stage, feet unable to reach the ground, reddish blisters creeping up his shoulder from his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some historical context I had jotted down:
> 
> \- The Battle of Jumonville Glen took place on May 28th, 1754, and was the opening battle of the French and Indian War. The French began building outposts in the Ohio River Valley, and Washington heard news of their camp and decided to attack before the French could. The French claimed they were there in the name of diplomacy but eventually surrendered.  
> \- One of the French survivors escaped into the woods, returned to Fort Duquesne, and reported the attack. The French claimed Washington was a war criminal, and their outrage helped spur the Battle of Fort Necessity.  
> \- That battle ended in Washington’s sole surrender. By July 4th, Washington and his troops had abandoned Fort Necessity entirely, and by mid-July, they arrived back in Eastern Virginia.  
> 


	2. Chapter 2

**14 December 1774 anno domini. Boston.**

Whispers traveled through the alleyways, carried by hooded, unknown figures. There were murmurings of mutiny and a king too young for his own good traveling down the side streets of Boston as one young courier boy leaned against the dark wooden mast of a ship. His eyes scanned the crowds, in search of one shock of lemon-blonde hair among throngs of strangers. Eternity was at his fingertips, and the boy was a young God, but he didn't know it quite yet. For now, he was still just a colony; very little else. For now, he would wait, regretfully, until the day an empire pushed him too far. Little did he know, that day had already come and passed; the repercussions of Arthur’s actions were not yet clear.

Of course, a day would come when he would grow up, wage a war, stage a revolution. A day would come when his hands would play idly with the fabric of his suit as a cool September breeze seemed to carry hope through the air. Alfred liked to think that one day, he'd be free. A treaty would be signed if it came to that, and he'd be able to go about as he pleased, with no laws limiting who he exported things to or where those things would go. No more innocent men killed in the streets by puppets of a strict government, no more censorship, and treachery. Freedom, that was his goal now. But just as the man seemed dead set on crushing this dream, he interrupted the boy’s thoughts.

"You started this," a deep voice cut through the air like a knife, and the corners of young Alfred's lips twitched upwards ever so slightly, spinning on his heel and digging his pointer finger right into the speaker's chest.

"You started this. I'm finishing it," the revolutionary's voice was rough, and for a few moments, it seemed as if he was almost conflicted.

England’s emerald eyes showed a fiery defiance of the natural way of things, a sneer growing more and more evident on his lips. "You've looked better, hm?" the playful lilt in his voice was unmistakable as he gazed upon the seemingly fragile form of the boy before him. The sneer was soon to disappear, however, the moment a closed fist hit him square in the jaw. "So have you," England replied simply, his arm much stronger than his voice. The blood tasted like wine. Arthur knew how it felt to be immortal, watching things change and people grow old and die in the land he helped design. He had taken to power like Icarus took to the Sun, and he was slowly beginning his descent back into the cool, clear waters from which he came. Strong hands grasped at the boy's shoulders now, fingernails leaving half-moon indentations in the peach-soft skin, fiery cerulean meeting calm emerald in a silent battle. England won. He always did.

"I ignored you for too long," his words became sickly sweet at that, honeyed syllables dripping from his lips like the tea soon to be emptied from the crates around them.

"You did," was America’s only reply, eyes glinting in the sunlight like two sapphires. "Although, it's too late now, don't you think?" the blood was rushing to the man's jaw now, an ugly red mark beginning to make its appearance.

England tasted the metallic tang of blood in his mouth, and promptly spit it out onto his own ship, carrying his own exports. Deep down, he knew it was too late, but he didn't bother to stop the almost cruel smirk that rose to his lips. America was young and foolish, as was the inhabitants of his country. With his forest-green eyes full of amusement, and a soft tune on his lips, the man simply walked away. He sauntered away from the half-starved figure still leaning against the mast of a ship carrying one of his finest exports; posture perfect, as always, although with a slight limp. That was the side effect of war, after all. He needed this relationship more than the young, foolish American did, although he'd never admit it to himself. So England continued; with the acts, with the laws forbidding meetings and the proclamations of new taxes to keep the colony in line. That's all the boy really was. A colony.


End file.
